


Masterpiece Theatre I

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Series: Masterpiece Theatre [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'Fix-It', Angst, BAMF!John Watson, Established Relationship, Eulogies, M/M, Major Character Death is slightly misleading, post-S3, sort of Reverse Reichenbach, you'll see why - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: John would do anything to protect Sherlock, just like Sherlock would do anything to protect him. Even if that means hurting each other in the process.





	

_First it comes on quiet, creeping slow. Clever words and phrases only stain, I remain so lost and buried underneath everything that I need when all I want is you._

“You know this may very well kill him, correct?” There is little to no emotion in Mycroft’s voice as he looks up at the man before him, his lips twisted into as much of a grimace as he is willing to show. “This may very well kill him and it will all be for naught.” 

“I know.” John says quietly, but firmly.

“Well, if you know, why are you doing it?” Mycroft replied, a few drips of malice seeping into his voice. He’s angry, of course he is. The man who is supposed to keep his brother is sitting here telling him that he wants to rip his heart out of his chest and for what? A bit of bravery? Mycroft would be damned if he let that happen.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ You know why! There’s no other way to stop her. You can’t keep a steady track on her, so why not have me do it? And who knows, maybe her mission will change if I’m dead. He did it for me all those years ago, why can’t I do the same for him?” John was vehement, Mycroft could tell. He couldn’t but think ‘ _What is it about these two idiots and sacrificing themselves for each other?_ ’

“Because he knows you love him now. He didn’t know that back then, but he does now, and you’re willing to lie to his face to go on a suicide mission?” Mycroft knew his voice was was raised, similar to is anger, but he tried his best to keep it under some control.

“Yes!” John cried, standing from his chair, “Yes, because this is what I can do for him. And you know it. And if she still knows that I’m alive, it’s not going to work! Mycroft, please, just help me with this.”

“Moriarty will--”

“I don’t give a fuck about Moriarty! I’ll kill him myself as well. Let him know I’m alive. I doubt he’d tell her anything. Look, Mycroft, I’m still going to do this whether you help me or not. I know it’s going to hurt him, but that’s why you’re here. You have to keep him sane while I go off to end this for good. Because while you were able to watch me suffer while he was gone, I don’t know if you’ll be able to watch him.”

“John, that’s not fair. You know that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” John said, placing his hands on Mycroft’s desk and looking directly into his eyes. He’d turned into Captain Watson in that moment, and even that can strike some amount of fear into the heart of Mycroft Holmes. 

“So what would you have me do?”

***

John opened the door of Baker Street and stood in the foyer with his back against the door for a moment, breathing heavily. He was about to walk up the steps to his home and tell the love of his life, his best friend, his absolute everything, the he doesn’t love him. He has to remind himself that this is to keep Sherlock safe. This is for both of their benefits. This is so they can live without fear for the rest of their lives. John took another deep breath and ascended the steps. 

When he opened the door, Sherlock looked up from his laptop and broke into a radiant smile. One saves specifically for John. It broke his heart, “You’re home.” he said, standing from the desk and crossing the floor to John, enveloping him, kissing his jaw, his neck. It took John a moment to steel his resolve and not hug his partner back, not give into the insistent lips at his neck. Sherlock noticed. Of course he did. “John?”

John swallowed thickly, trying to remove the lump from his throat, “We can’t keep doing this, Sherlock.” It took everything he had not to break at his own words, or to break at the loss of Sherlock’s hands on him and the pained expression on his face. 

“What? John, I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong? Because whatever it is, I can fix it.” He reached out to grab John’s hands, but he forced himself to pull away and watch the hurt swell on Sherlock’s face. “John, what is it?” He had dropped his voice almost to a whisper like he does late at night when John is roused from sleep by another nightmare. _God, who knows how long I’ll be giving this up._

“I don’t mean it. Any of it.” John said, tight lipped, but hopeful that in the wake of what he was about to say, Sherlock would understand. He drove the knife in, “I don’t love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flinched, as if he’d been slapped. “You’re lying.”

“No.” _Yes. Keep believing that, love._

“You are. You can’t say the things you’ve said and not mean them. I know you, John.” He was vehement in his statement. _You do, darling, you do. And you will. I just need this to work._

“Listen to what I’m saying now. I don’t love you. I can’t. I don’t feel things like that for you. I’m sorry, but that’s the end of it. I’ll be back to pack up my stuff tomorrow. Don’t bother yourself with it. Goodbye, Sherlock.” John turned and fled back down the steps, only faintly hearing the whispered _John_ and the slow collapse onto bony knees. He didn’t need to see it to know the pain he’d caused. Tears were flowing down his cheeks as he stepped onto the pavement of Baker Street. He thanked himself for removing the guns from the flat as he heard, from two stories below, Sherlock howl and cast _something_ against wall. He marched on until he was intercepted by a now familiar black car.

***

“Is it done?” Mycroft asked, still seated behind his desk. John flopped into the chair opposite him, spent, and nodded.

“And what I asked of you? Is it done?” 

“Yes. Your car was retrieved, a bag of your belongings placed in the passenger seat, and a body with striking resemblance to yourself in the driver’s seat. It’s perched over the bank of the Thames and set to blow in half an hour, giving fictional you enough time to get there on your own. Satisfactory?” Mycroft asked.

“You’re sure he’ll believe it’s me?”

“Oh, Doctor Watson, it take you and me to fool Sherlock Holmes. Now, Scotch?” he reached for a bottle placed on his decanter. John raised a hand. 

“No. I need you to get me on the next helicopter out of here directly to where my bloody wife is. And then, you’re going to make sure your brother is safe. And while I’m gone, I want updates. Clear?” John said, his Captain Watson voice returning. Mycroft nodded once and popped off to talk to people. John exhaled a long sigh, let the gravity of what he’d just done wash over him, and then sobbed. 

***

Sherlock went _mad_. He threw the skull at the mantle. He searched the flat for any piece of evidence that would tell him what John was doing but came up with nothing. He called John twenty times in the span of five minutes and left just about that many voicemails. Voicemails full of ‘tell me what I did’s and ‘John, come home’s and ‘we can fix this’ but all to no avail. He never answered. He ended up throwing his phone at the wall, watching it shatter. 

Looking back, that was the worst decision because he never got the call from Mycroft, which ended up bringing him to the flat, which Sherlock didn’t want at all. He didn’t want to see anyone. Anyone who wasn’t John. Mycroft was huffing when he burst through the door, “Why didn’t you answer my call?” he asked through wheezes.

Sherlock rounded on him, ready to pounce, but he was out of energy, “I threw my bloody phone at the wall, Mycroft. Why in hell are you here? Go away.”

“Sherlock.”

“ _I said leave, Mycroft!_ ”

“John’s car was found blown up on the bank of the Thames. We think he was inside it when it exploded. There was a body inside. It’s being transported to Bart’s right now. Sherlock, I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock had swept his coat on and was out of the flat before Mycroft could finish speaking.

***

Sherlock palmed open the door to the morgue, Mycroft hot on heels, Molly looking completely unnerved, “Where is he?” he roared, making his way to the table Molly was standing over. _Approximately one hundred sixty-seven centimeters tall. Left hand uncovered: clear imprint of wedding band. Familiar fingers._ John’s _fingers. No._ God _no._ “Uncover him.” he snapped when he was across from Molly.

She flinched, “Sherlock--”

“ _Uncover. Him._ ” he snapped again. She complied, pulling down the white sheet. _Singed silver-blonde hair. Opened deep blue eyes. John’s eyes. The scar on his shoulder, still recognizable under all the burns._ Sherlock collapsed to his knees and gripped the utterly destroyed hand, not caring about health codes and whatever else, “ _Christ no. No. God no._ ”

His shoulders shook as more sobs racked his body. Dry sobs, for he had run out of tears. “My love. My John. Christ, who did this to you? I swear to you that I will not rest until I find them, and I will tear them apart with my bare hands. I’m promise you.” He sniffed and threw over his shoulder to Mycroft, “How could you let this happen? You promised me he’d be safe and now he’s dead on a slab. Where did you fail?”

Mycroft shook his head and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, which he shrugged off, “I don’t know. But I will accept this as my fault. I failed him. I failed you both.”

“Yes. You did. Now get out of my sight and start preparing his funeral. I don’t have the strength. Closed-casket, of course.”

“Of course.” Mycroft wavered for a moment, and left. Molly was blessedly silent as Sherlock sat holding tight to the scorched body of his lover and grieved.

***

Four days later, John was following Mary from a ways away in a small town in Pennsylvania when he was connected to Mycroft through the bluetooth that was constantly in his ear. “Your funeral’s today.” he said, his voice even. 

“I know.” John replied, “How is he?” 

“Stone cold. But I expect him to break when he reads your eulogy, much like you did for him.”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder, Myc. Now do you want to know what I’ve seen?” There was silence and John took that as an affirmative, “She doesn’t look over her shoulder much. She’s no doubt read the article on my death by now and she doesn’t seem to be looking for me, which is a good sign that she’s believed it.”

“That’s good. How would you like to experience your funeral? Audio or video recording?” 

John took a deep breath, amazed he was being asked this question, but answered none the less, “Video. Please. I need to see him.”

There was a pause, and the clicking of some keys, and then Mycroft answered, “Consider it done. Oh, and John?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Right. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

***

John was at a b&b when he got the recording later that night on the MI6 issued laptop he’d brought with him. He sat and stared at the freeze frame of Sherlock at the podium. God, he looked wrecked, but he was still so bloody gorgeous. _My bee. I’m so sorry. I’ve done this to you. He pressed play._

‘ _I would like to open this by saying that I do not believe a word John Watson said to me before this all come to fruition. Not a single one. Now, it’s no secret to every single one of you sitting here that I loved John with the whole of my entire soul. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. And while I know that death never truly means the end for the two of us, I can still read the evidence in front of me quite clearly. He’s gone and I have to live on without him. I don’t know if the universe is getting back at me for what I put him through five years ago, but if this is the indemnity I must pay, I will._ ’

John saw as tears began to cloud Sherlock’s vision. He tried to blink them away, to hold them at bay, but he was unsuccessful. John let his own fall.

‘ _John was a ridiculous man. And despite what he told me that night, he loved me with all his heart. He was a soldier. My soldier. And he deserved much better than he got. If I could right all the wrongs in our lives and bring him back to me, I would. Now, there’s not much more I wish to say on the subject except this in closing. I believe in you, my love. And if these words somehow reach your ears, just now that I will be waiting for you with open arms when you come home. I will do for you what you did not for me. I will nurse you back to health if I have to. I love you. I believe you, my John._ ’

John kissed his fingertips and placed them over Sherlock’s figure, “My bee. I’m going to fix this. I promise. I promise, I promise, I promise.” He heard a brief moment of static over his bluetooth and Mycroft’s voice was in his ear.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” he said, slightly clipped.

“I do. Now just let me finish this. Keep him alive and clean for me, Myc. Please.” 

“He’s not speaking to me. He thinks it’s my fault.”

“Then have Greg do it. Just keep him alive.” John said, shutting the laptop.

“Of course, John. Do the same for yourself.”

“I will.”


End file.
